Interludes
by NairobiWonders
Summary: I am trying something new - three short vignettes, hopefully one a day, of Watson/Holmes interaction leaning strongly to the Joanlock side of the spectrum. This is for puttyourrecordson who requested some joanlock be waiting for her upon her return. Plus this will start me getting ready for nanowrimo. Thanks! For chapter 2, it would help a tiny bit if you read Anger Management.
1. Chapter 1

Holmes sat across from Captain Gregson's Great Aunt Rose who, perched on the edge of the sofa, was well into minute twenty-one of her monologue about the virtues of her puppy, Queegie. Sherlock agreed to meet with her out of respect for the Captain. Dognappings were not a priority for him, nor for the Captain, who had obviously pawned her off on Holmes. Joan, sitting beside Great Aunt Rose, could see Sherlock was phasing into his "meeting" look: physically there but mentally writing a monograph, probably on the use of explosive beeswax. Watson put down her mug, and tried to break the trance by offering Great Aunt Rose another cupcake. The woman accepted the gooey treat and continued her testimonial on what a good boy Queegie was, without missing a beat.

"Well, I tried," thought Joan as she helped herself to a cupcake. Joan, who had also tuned out the chattering of the older woman, became aware that Sherlock's gaze had shifted to her.

He flashed his eyes wide at her and stared a fraction of a second too long at her breasts.

Watson ignored him. Sherlock again caught her eye, tilted his head a little and slowly looked down at her breasts.

Joan shot him a look that implied "Sherlock, no. Not appropriate. Not now!"

His eyes were her weakness. Blue and grey and so open to her she sometimes felt they let her walk into his soul. Joan snapped back into the present. Sherlock still watched her and she felt the slightest of blushes rising. Of course, he sensed her embarrassment and encouraged by it, again, let his eyes roam down Watson's torso.

Joan narrowed her eyes, set her mouth in a thin line and ever so slightly shook her head at him hoping he would realize this was not the time for this sort of behavior.

Great Aunt Rose continued on about her beloved companion, unaware of the silent conversation being had around her.

Sherlock sat up a little and one more time looked at Watson, first straight in the eyes and then he shifted his gaze down to her right breast and then intently back at her.

"My god," Joan thinks, "what an oaf." It then dawned on her. She looked down at herself. A big glob of white frosting dangled from her sweater. Discreetly, she took her napkin and cleaned herself up while Sherlock mockingly rolled his eyes at her and turned his attention back to their visitor, as he stifled a yawn.


	2. Chapter 2 Watson

A small fire crackled in the fire place. They sat crosslegged, side by side on the floor with the current case's assorted files, documents and photos spread out in front of them. The brownstone was dark and quiet except for the rustle of papers and the occasional comment from one to the other. Photos of Queegie stared up at them in various poses and settings and costumes.

"This is a waste of time," Holmes said as he started putting his stack of documents in a pile. "We'll do a physical investigation of the area tomorrow. I'm sure we can ferret out where the little bastard is hiding. Surely there must be murders and more nefarious activities that we can turn our great intellects towards, hmmm?

Watson looked up at him a little surprised and looked down at her stack of documents. He had included her in his comment "our great intellects." She was not used to complements, real complements, not the ones aimed to appeal to female vanity. Watson looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to form the words, to communicate...

"What's wrong Watson?" He broke into her thoughts. "Out with it."

She looked directly at him, unsure how to begin. Sharing parts of herself with others had always been a problem for her. "Do you remember the fight we had the other day, about the car..."

"Parts of it I remember exceedingly well and in great detail," he raised his eyebrows, flashed his eyes and gave her a mocking leer.

She tapped him on the knee as she said, "Stop it! Not that part," and stopped to straighten a file before she continued. "I'm talking about the argument, the yelling match. ... At one point you said that I don't allow myself to be helped." She got quiet, again looked down causing a veil of black hair to shield her face.

Sherlock sensed this was difficult for her and waited quietly for her to continue. He moved his knee slightly so that it gently brushed hers. She tucked her hair back behind her ear and gave him a sidelong look and sadly smiled.

"I've always taken care of myself. Even as a child. My parents loved me. It's not like I was neglected ... but they knew I was a smart girl and expected me to take care of things for myself, and when I did, there was little praise for it. She sighed. "It's really is not a big deal." Watson looked up into his eyes and got lost in them.

Sherlock was usually made uncomfortable by this level of communication with anyone but Watson. He didn't fidget or move away or make a smart-ass remark - his usual ploys when faced with intimacy. He wanted to hear more. "It is a big deal." He almost whispered the words.

Still engulfed in his eyes she continued. "I've always taken care of myself and taken care of others. I'm responsible Joanie who needs to be in control." She tried to lighten what she was saying by bobbing her head a bit adding a small fake laugh. "It's why I had such a difficult time with my friends questioning why I was working with you and it's why I blew up at you for fixing the brakes on the car. I don't know how to accept help. I feel it diminishes me somehow."

He was immersed in her words and while she spoke his hand had quietly found hers. "You have allowed me to teach you, to aid in your investigations... You have accepted help from me."

"From you ... I can sometimes, accept help, ... allow myself to not be always in control ... difficult to say why really ..." She smiled and her voice trailed off when she realized she was echoing his words from the night he had asked her to be his partner.

Sherlock also remembered and he finished for her, "perhaps in time we'll figure that out as well." With a faint smile he tugged at her hand. She scooted closer to him and allowed him to put his arm around her as she laid her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest.


	3. Chapter 3 Frodo Lives!

Watson was up to her elbows in dirty, sudsy, steamy water. Ms. Hudson had taken two weeks vacation and the brownstone's kitchen was on its way to becoming a health hazard. Not a clean cup, dish, bowl or utensil was to be found. She had told Sherlock to report to the kitchen at 10:00 a.m. to assist her with the clean up. They were partners in everything she had told him. It was 10:25, when Holmes finally bounced into the kitchen.

"You're late," she said and pointed him to a dish towel. Holmes took it without question and started drying. She looked at him surprised. Watson had expected arguments, whining, and puppy dog looks.

"I broke the Queegie case," he said with a self satisfied smirk. Watson looked at him and waited for the report.

"She lied to us. That sweet old lady, the great auntie of a NYPD Captain lied to us. I should have picked up on it sooner. Very sloppy on my part. But I was distracted by your breast, and the frosting..." Sherlock punctuated his remark by leaning in closer to Watson and taking an exaggerated look at her torso.

"Hey!" She bumped him away with her elbow, "don't blame me and my eating habits for your lapses." He looked at Watson for direction as to where to store the small vase he had just dried. They really had used every last vessel in the building. She pointed him toward the far cabinet.

"Actually I think Great Aunt Rose is probably an expert liar, possibly a sociopath, and the fact that she has made into her 90s without being caught speaks to her skills." Sherlock finished drying a cup and leaned over in front of Watson to put it away.

She redirected him back to his report. "So what about the dog? Did you find him?"

"Yes and no." Sherlock slowed the drying process so he could explain. "Queegie is short for Queequeg. Why did she name him Queequeg, you ask? " Sherlock waited a beat. Watson stared at him blankly. "Ehr, well, I asked her. She stated she 'found' him in front of a Starbucks." Again, Sherlock waited for Watson's reaction. None came other than the clanking of dishes. She really hated doing dishes. He continued, "I assume you are familiar with Moby Dick, Watson?"

"Yes, I went to high school, Ahab, white whale, Ishmael, Starbuck, Queequeg... What does this have to do with the missing dog? " She was getting weary.

"Great Aunt Rose found the dog outside a Starbucks about two years ago and more or less commandeered the pup. She never looked for the owner, nor did she place an ad or posters saying she had found the dog. Turns out the dog had been microchipped. And when he ran off the other day, Queegie was picked up my a more responsible person who had the dog checked, found the chip and reunited Frodo, a.k.a. Queequeg, with his original owner, a certain Mr. Bruckman, who had dashed in for a cup to go when Auntie Rose dognapped his pup."

"Yikes!" Watson paused and looked at Sherlock. "Are you going to tell Gregson?"

"No. I've decided to let this slide. Tell them both that I couldn't find the dog. Hopefully Great Aunt Rose has learned her lesson and won't be trolling coffee houses looking for her next canine victim." Sherlock threw his towel down on the counter.

Watson stared at him, "What are you doing? There are stacks more to wash and dry."

"We have enough clean cutlery, cups and a plate or two now to last us a couple of days. We don't need to continue, do we?" He looked at her, now using, his most persuasive pleading look.

She really, really hated to do dishes. "We'll, there is some truth there, we don't really need to continue..."

"Maybe we can go upstairs and make your bed?" He nodded his head in hopes she would agree.

"But I made my bed this morning," she said slowly as she dried her hands.

"We'll then, perhaps we can mess it up and then remake it, hmm?" Sherlock stared at her.

She stared back, considered what he had said for a beat or two, took a small breath and then excitedly said, "Okay." She smiled, turned and quickly headed out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

Sherlock stood there for a second in slight disbelief that she had accepted and then quickly followed her out and up the stairs.


End file.
